Asymmetry
by penvision
Summary: A series of oneshots that look at Sam's relationships with Mikaela and Carly and how they're opposite in both little ways and big ones.  Chapter two; all scars were once wounds.
1. Stubble and Stains

AN: One of my pet peeves in movies is when they change or cut characters in the sequels. I would've much preferred if they had kept the Mikaela character and only changed the actor, like in The Dark Night. I like the Sam and Mikaela relationship and think that it works well, so I decided to do a little compare and contrast. If you like it, favorite it or review it and I'll keep writing.

…

Sam rolled onto his side, his arm reaching out in search of warmth as a sliver of sunlight found his brow. He squinted in protest, his hand dropping to the mattress as familiar footsteps ascended the stairs. He sat up on his elbow and smiled. "Good morning, beautiful."

Carly beamed as she crossed the room, steaming mug in hand. "Morning, love, here's fresh coffee."

Sam's fingers wrapped around the warm mug as he sat up a little more. "Mmm, fantastic." He took a sip and hid a grimace; too much sugar. "How long have you been up?"

A shrug. "About an hour." She sat next to him and he leaned in for a kiss, but she pulled back. "Not until you've shaved."

"Seriously?" Sam rubbed his chin with his free hand, feeling the barely protruding hairs. "It's just morning stubble, there's barely anything there."

"It's itchy, you'll make my skin red. Go shave."

Coffee mug met overpriced nightstand with an aggressive thump that threatened to spill the contents. Sans coaster. "Fine."

…

Sam rolled onto his side, his arm reaching out in search of warmth, and pulled a still-dozing Mikaela against his chest, his nose resting on her hair. Their fingers interlocked as he slipped one of her legs between his, two chests rising and falling with a content sigh.

Sam kissed the top of her head. "Morning beautiful." His only reply was a half mumble and her hand squeezing his. 'I love waking up next to you,' he wanted to say. And because he was young and sappy and in love, he did.

"Hmm." She turned her head so that his nose was pressed against her temple, his chin to her cheek. She tilted her head a little more, rubbing his chin with her cheek, and felt his smile against her skin. "Is that a beard I feel? How many days did it take to grow this?"

"Hey, just one!" Three, actually, but she did not need to know that.

He kissed her cheek, her temple, her jaw, and she squirmed with each one. "Sam, that tickles!"

He released her earlobe, "should I stop?"

"Mmm, no."

"Want me to shave?"

She kissed his chin. "No. It might just be a fluke."

"Ha. Can't just say you like it, can you?"

Mikaela rolled onto her back to see him better, her hand tracing his jaw, his chin, his cheek bones, his upper lip. Handsome came to mind, but he was always handsome to her. "You almost look like an adult."

Sam pretended to debate this. "I'll take it."

She leaned in and kissed him. "I like the stubble, you should keep it more often."

He kissed her back. "Maybe I will."

…

"Sam, there's a smudge on these jeans." Carly held the dirty pair on the tip of her finger, arm stretched stiffly away from her as if the dark ring in question was contagious.

"Hmm?" Sam paused the electric shaver and glanced into the bedroom. "Oh, it's just an oil spot." He turned back to the mirror.

"That will never come out, they're ruined."

The shaver stopped again. "Those are my favorite pair of jeans."

"Well you can't wear them now."

"What? Why not?"

"It's…" Carly frowned, trying to find the right words to explain the laws of fashion to her clueless boyfriend. "Undignified. I'm throwing them out."

Sam set the shaver down and turned to face her completely. "Baby, please don't-"

But she was gone from his sight. "Already done."

…

Sam scooted over on the couch, throwing his feet onto the coffee table as Mikaela sat down next to him, their greeting a kiss. He put his hand on her thigh. "Your jeans are filthy."

She looked down at her jeans, spotted with oil and grease. "I just washed them."

"Stained, then."

She shrugged easily, the television grabbing her attention. "So? They're my favorite pair, besides, the only person I'm worried about impressing is you."

A grin. "You're worried about impressing me?"

Mikaela blushed. "Can we just watch TV?"

He gave her thigh a squeeze and kissed her cheek. "You look sexy in these jeans."

Her eyes stayed on the television. "And you look dorky in that hoodie."

"Sexy dorky?" Sam wiggled his eyebrows.

She smiled and looked at him. "Only to me, I'm sure."

"You're all I need."

…


	2. Scars

Carly idly traced Sam's bare back as he dozed, book in her lap, when her finger snagged on a bump of skin. She looked over to find a twisted knot of once broken skin. "What's this scar from?"

Sam felt her hand trace its outline, his eyelids heavy with sleep. "I don't remember."

Her hand stopped. "You don't remember." She placed her hand over it, but failed to cover the entire mass. "It's huge, how can you not remember?"

A shrug. "I know what day I got it, in Egypt; I just don't remember exactly when I got it." He knew that that was not true; that scar served as a constant reminder that he was vulnerable, mortal, that he had died. "It was a long day."

"Well, it healed very nicely. You're lucky."

…

Sam lay on his back on top of the mismatched covers of their full bed, his head propped up by an unsteady pile of pillows, his hand rubbing lazy circles on Mikaela's thigh as she sorted through bandages and gauzes and ointments, laying a carefully selected few on the bed next to him. It would be a peaceful moment; girlfriend sitting next to boyfriend in their first place, surrounded by unpacked boxes, room lit with the yellows and oranges of the afternoon sun. It would even be a sexual moment, with Sam shirtless and Mikaela in a revealing tank top, his hand on her thigh, the air warm and the apartment quiet and the bed needing to be broken in. Except Sam's chest and stomach were covered in bandages, gauze, wraps; white a few hours ago but now spotted pink and red and brown. His face marred with open wounds, left uncovered to heal. Her body covered with far less of both, but it was still more than he could stand.

Sam watched his hand rub her thigh, tried to memorize the feel of her skin. Normally it was soft, smooth, but the Egyptian sun has left it raw, dry, sunburnt. He searched his memories for a comparable texture and found nothing but guilt. He was about to say 'I'm sorry' again, but let the words sit on his tongue. Mikaela would only chastise him; she chose to follow him, to stay by his side, to fight, to protect. He felt the muscle underneath the skin, firm and strong. "I love you."

Mikaela's hands stopped sorting as she looked over to him. He raised his eyes from her thigh to her face, his expression solemn. It matched hers perfectly. "I love you, too." She bent over and kissed him; a full, slow, intimate kiss. His hand left her thigh to cup her cheek, holding her without demanding her to stay.

She pulled away, their eyes locking. "Ready?"

"Sure." This was their newest ritual, one that would last for weeks. She would remove and clean and re-cover, slowly, systematically, and in a peaceful silence. He would try not to hiss and squirm.

"Ready for your back?"

Rolling over was a struggle, and he complained with good humor while she teased, both of them trying to take his mind off of the pain. He discovered that lying on freshly cleaned wounds was a completely new level of uncomfortable; sore, tender, burning. But having his back cleaned did wonders to distract him.

Mikaela frowned at his open sores. "God, you're a mess."

Sam stared at the wall, wincing as she peeled off gauze. He managed a half shrug. "I'll heal."

Her hands paused. "You died. You died and there was nothing that I could do."

He could hear her voice hitch a little. Mikaela was not a crier; she believed that crying did not solve anything, but he knew that she was remembering all of the horrifying, unspeakable, indescribable details of that moment, he knew that her eyes were full of unshed tears. Why did they have to have this conversation while he was immobile and staring at the wall? "You brought me back."

"The primes brought you back." A wobble, this time; she was definitely holding back tears.

He shook his head. "I heard you. They were telling me to save the world and I didn't care. I could hear you, over them. And all I wanted to do was tell you I love you." He managed to find her leg and squeeze it. It was not much, not how he wanted to comfort her, but it was all that he could do. "And that I need you, too." He tried to think of something romantic to offer; a line from a poem, a quote from a movie, anything that could capture everything that he felt for her. But Sam was a romantic through actions, not words, so he only said "I love you so much."

At that moment, with both of them wounded and a little broken, surrounded by the promise of a new life, it was neither romantic nor poetic. But it was enough.


End file.
